through the fire and flames
by twigcollins
Summary: Ky Kiske meets Sol Badguy.  Then things explode a lot.  Rated because Sol swears like a wounded truck driving sailor.
1. Chapter 1

_When you see something that is technically sweet, you go ahead and do it and you argue about what to do about it only after you have had your technical success. That is the way it was with the atomic bomb._

-J. Robert Oppenheimer

* * *

"- goddamn stupid coffee machine!"

The light, high laughter that followed lilted through the room like sunlight. It was innocent, carefree, and knotted in his stomach – well, not yet, not just yet. Here in this time, he was oblivious, bent over his clipboard and working his way through an equation that seemed to have a personal grudge, just shy of snapping the pen he was chewing on in half.

"You graduate from college at seventeen, triple major, top of your class, only to lose daily to the coffeemaker." Her voice was wry, affectionate as she teased her colleague. She'd loved to make fun, play little jokes and keep them on their toes. "I think you're going senile. What do you think, Frederick?"

"I don't think unless I get paid to." He muttered, and there was more laughter. He winced at the bright lights, the sharp scent of disinfectant, the cascade of chemicals fighting for his attention – but he wasn't supposed to smell that yet, not yet. It was wrong, remembering this room with senses he hadn't had.

"So I hear we're going to get royally screwed by those Dutch bastards. Rumor is they cracked the chromosomal trigger problem last month."

"Like hell, they're bluffing." He shifted the pen to the other side of his mouth, regretting once again he hadn't taken a job as, say, a roadie, instead of working in a building with five clean rooms, six card swipes and two security guards between him and the nearest patch of open air. "Nobody loves throwing money around like the military – this answer's coming from the private sector. The academics haven't got a shot."

If he could go back, and stop it here and now, he might have had a shot – shred all his files, burn down the damn building. Or maybe it wouldn't have been enough, or maybe he wouldn't have, even if he'd known. So sure he could come up with the right answer, with enough time – that there was a right answer, that the mistake wasn't in doing any of it in the first place.

Maybe human progress was an unstoppable force of nature, like gravity or entropy, and this was really the only way it could have happened.

"Well, I hate to disappoint you all, but I'm taking off early. I have a date. With a real live man, even."

At least he hadn't brought her into all this. Of all the stupid, stupid shit, of everything that had happened before and after and all that he'd done, that one wasn't his to carry. She'd done it all on her own, made herself known. So damn smart, so damn young and so damn smart.

"Hey, while you're out there let me know if you see any... oh man, it's been a while. Girls. Yeah, I think those used to be pretty cool. Bring one back for me... well, two for me, one for Frederick."

Still a football game waiting for him at his apartment, and since he hadn't read the paper he didn't know who'd won, or who'd went to the playoffs. Weeks now, since he'd bothered to come up for air, to do anything but code and test and make it work, push that envelope. Funny how, even now, there were other things on his mind, the normal little details. He kept forgetting to get his mail, and the post office had apparently decided he'd died. He needed to send a card to one of his acquaintances who'd finally managed tenure – it never hurt, to stay networked.

The other scientist moved down to his usual spot at the end of the table, humming a little as he worked. Quietly, nothing annoying, and another image slid on top of it, just for a moment. The future, still a memory but further along than this. Everything bathed in pulsing red lights, alarms hollowly calling to no one. The man who was humming crumpled up on the floor, his head caved in, a bullet hole where his eye should have been.

But that wasn't this. This was when they still thought they could do great things. Impossible things.

He was going to change the world.

* * *

Sol snapped awake, breathing hard, palm already at his forehead, the familiar grooves of the metal band pressing against his skin. His other hand was on his sword, and he rolled his eyes at his own stupidity, at allowing the memory to dig that deep.

"Tch." He wiped a hand across his face, jerked the thin blanket away, letting the cold sting of morning wipe the rest of the dream away. He could hear the clump of boots passing by outside his tent, and a hundred quiet conversations past that, the familiar sounds of the camp waking up for another day. Sol swallowed, the bitter taste of old, stale coffee in the back of his throat.

_Go away, old man._ He thought, rubbing at closed eyes. _Go away and die. No one needs you, no one wants you. What the hell good did you ever do for anyone, anyway?_

No answer. Typical.

The dawn light was weak and cold, his breath rising in the air as Sol stepped outside, stretching, the camp just starting to wake up around him. It had been a quiet couple of days, probably a good idea to run perimeter. He usually went a little further than any of the soldiers were comfortable with, tried to shake things up with anything he encountered.

Quiet time only gave the bitch room to take stock and recover, the same as it did for their side, and Justice was remarkably good at moving her troops in silence. Until they'd started sending scouts out to flank enemy positions and keep track of what she was up to, they'd lost half a dozen battles and barely held through a dozen more, with impossible numbers of Gears seeming to swarm up out of nowhere.

"You going out, sir?"

He didn't much give a damn what they called him, but it seemed to make everyone more comfortable to give him some sort of rank, and as long as it didn't actually require any effort on his part, Sol could hardly complain.

"It's a nice day. I thought I'd go kick over a rock, see what's hiding underneath." The man looked nervously unenthused with the plan, and Sol grinned. "Don't worry, I'll make sure not to bring anything back with me."

"It's not that, sir. They're supposed to be bringing out the next commander sometime soon, is all."

"Shit, that's today?"

The other soldier laughed slightly, making a last-minute attempt to hide it. Sol was a terrible influence on the men. "We'd be happy to cover for you sir, if you don't want to bother."

"Another royal second cousin this time?" The last one they'd sent had been someone's brother, maybe. Mostly useless, except for getting caught in the largest of the attacking Gear's teeth long enough for Sol to barbecue the bastard and allow them to rout the rest. They'd sent back the man's sword, his bloodstained coat and one of his hands, which wasn't a bad haul, compared to the usual empty box, the letter. The postcard.

_Broke it. Send another._

"He wasn't that bad, I guess. He had all that wine."

Officially, all his possessions had been shipped back with his remains, though the road was so far and so dangerous, with so many checkpoints full of thirsty soldiers that it had been far more sensible to mark the 'perishables' as lost and raise a glass to his memory.

"A shame it went missing." The soldier agreed, completely straight-faced. Sol was really a godawful influence on the men.

"So, do we have any idea what poor bastard they're sending out?"

"I heard his name was... Kiske, I think. Commander Undersn is accompanying him. He's supposed to be some sort of prodigy, they say. And with things in the South..."

The soldier trailed off, not at all happily. As of a week ago, they were the furthest position out that had successfully held the line, and it seemed likely that everything was going to be fixed around them, for the next push forward.

Sol already had a century's worth of proof, that it was a bad idea to do a good job, this was just one more to add to the pile.

One of Kliff's kids, though? Here? Sol's eyes narrowed slightly, sure the old man would have given that up by now, after all it had cost him over the years. He'd never thought the man one to tilt at windmills, but then Sol had never thought he'd be here now, and that had been Undersn's doing too.

An impossible war, he had said, when he'd made the pitch. Miserable conditions, irritating politics, and a good chance to die horribly in an unflattering uniform. Sol had laughed, and Kliff had bought the next round, and there it had been, and here he was. It wasn't as if fighting on his own had been getting him far, and Sol had been – concerned was not the right word, but there was freedom and there was nothing left to lose, that was the song, right?

It wasn't enough to fight against something, not with an endless battle like this. He had to fight _for_ - he knew that - if he wanted a chance to get through it as himself, if he had any interest in staying sane long enough to see things through - and Undersn knew that too. It would be interesting to see this Kiske he was bringing with him.

Maybe there would be more to this one than a handful of pieces and an official condolence letter to send back home.

* * *

The journey was too much for a horse, the road far from anything that could be considered secure, and Ky couldn't quite understand why that meant they had to roar through the countryside at breakneck speed on the back of a transport that seemed ready to rattle itself apart at the slightest provocation, but there was little point in arguing.

Quinn, his unofficial _ordonnance,_ grinned at him from the other side of the low back compartment, didn't bother trying to talk over the absurd roar of the engine and the howling wind. They were sharing the cramped space with a rather large and leaking piece of artillery, Ky shifting position every now and again to keep the dripping oil off his uniform. It wasn't exactly trumpets and banners, not that Ky needed the introduction. Better to just get in and start, if this was really going to be the most important new ground for the next stage of the campaign.

No one dared to call it progress yet, not wanting to be the one to make that mistake, but it wasn't quite desperation anymore. They could actually afford to blink twice, now and then, before making a decision.

The hills around them were mostly bare, blackened scrub and a few stubborn trees, a volatile border that ran miles deep, hotly contested from the very first days of the Crusades. Desolate as it was, Ky preferred it to where he had been the month prior. Fighting to reclaim land recently lost, and it was much worse to march past abandoned fields, half-harvested, through the splintered wreckage of silent villages, and for every place that had been warned, it seemed there were two more that hadn't been as fortunate

The transport maneuvered the final few curves through the hills and came to a bone-jarring halt that left Ky checking to make sure all his teeth were still in place. Quinn followed him off the back of the truck, stretching a little. Ky frowned, looking toward the horizon, knew they had pulled away from the Commander's vehicle, but there was no sign of him, nothing to be seen but the settling dust from their own trip through the hills.

"Where's Commander Undersn?" Ky turned, their driver already lifting the hood on his deathtrap, steam belching up and Ky wasn't going to think about what the brakes must have looked like, he was just going to send a silent prayer of thanks skyward and not think about it.

"Blew a tire. He radioed while we were moving, said you should go ahead, and that he would catch up. He said I should tell you not to wait."

Ky frowned, looking back to the hills. The Commander's transport had been the better of the two, and the more heavily guarded, but still-

"You know the only thing that will give him trouble is when he gets bored and decides to walk the rest of the way." Quinn said quietly, and after a moment Ky nodded. The Commander didn't like to be worried over, didn't want special treatment, whether or not it had anything to do with rank.

The camp was a good size, protected in what was more a notch than a valley, nowhere for the Gears to call a high ground, artillery set up for any of the airborne monsters that might want to make the attempt. Two men were standing a relaxed guard at the bottom of the hill, though they saluted well enough when Ky appeared.

He couldn't help but notice the decrepit state of their uniforms, surprised that such an important post hadn't been sent more regular supply shipments, though even that often made little difference, if the fighting was fierce. As much as Ky would not wish to speak against his superiors - especially those within the church – it had always seemed a bit questionable, insisting white was the proper color for a battlefield.

"My name is Lieutenant Commander Kiske. I'm here to see your commanding officer. I assumed he would be present."

The snort of laughter from the guardsman was neither professional nor comforting, though the man quickly got himself under control when Ky looked at him.

"Uh, sir... that is. We thought you knew, sir. We sent him home weeks ago."

"What we could find, that is," the other guard added, "sir."

It wasn't exactly surprising they hadn't heard the news, not the first time a message had skipped past him while he was in transit from field to field, unless, of course, the report had simply disappeared altogether. Ky nodded.

"I'll need to speak with whomever's in charge, then, and ask him why he isn't here."

Later, he would appreciate the strange look that passed between the two men. If he had understood it then, he might have reconsidered the benefits of running away screaming.

"I suppose, sir, you're going to want to talk to Badguy."

* * *

Ky was supposed to follow the music. He didn't quite understand how that was easier than actual directions, until he got down into the camp. The last time he'd heard music played quite that loud had been back in the capital, from a very old head of state who was incredibly deaf and tended to sit with his head practically inside his ancient gramophone.

Amazing, really, that anyone had managed to rig up anything out here to play music, let alone at such a volume, and Ky fought back a moment of irritation – important to be calm as he could in this moment of transition, as much the Commander's ambassador on this mission as a commanding officer in his own right.

The music was even louder with the tent flap flipped outward, and Ky grimaced, stepping inside. For such a tiny space, it was an impressive wreck, the cobbled-together radio taking up a good deal of the space, binders crammed with papers stacked haphazardly on top of ammo crates. A weapon that rivaled the Commander's was propped up against the center pole, and a very large man sat on a very small chair with his back turned to them, intently rocking out on air guitar.

"Excuse me."

He couldn't even see the man's face, hair entirely in the way as he bobbed his head to the music, fingers flicking furiously through the air. Ky took a deep breath, let it out slowly.

"EXCUSE ME."

The man swung around, fingers frozen on middle C, giving Ky an inscrutable look. His gaze was strange, carrying an unsettling sense of calm, of time stretching out slowly, to some distant horizon. Glaciers, or mountains might give him the same look, were they capable of it.

"Do you mind?" Ky said, refusing to gesture toward the radio because it really should have been obvious and he wasn't wearing gloves and he wasn't even going to give himself the slightest temptation of accidentally blowing it up.

"Yeah. I got, like, four minutes left."

Ky noticed after a moment, that his mouth was hanging open, and he shut it with an audible snap, certain if he kept searching he would find an appropriate response somewhere. The man stared at him for another moment, as if it might make him disappear, and sighed heavily, reaching out with one long arm to shut off the radio, and then the only sound was the creaking of the chair as he stood up.

Sitting down, he'd been impressive. Standing up, it seemed impossible the tent could actually contain him. Ky heard Quinn take a slight step back, but Commander Undersn had not allowed him to fight anything but the largest opponents for the last three years of his training. Ordered him against the strongest and most massive Gears in skirmishes, always. It was expected of him, to jump into that kind of a fight, to want it, and Ky realized Sol was watching him, seemed to be following his train of thought.

"I guarantee, I'm more than you're used to." He drawled, with a lewd, satisfied grin that suggested any number of inexplicable meanings. He reached down, dragging a dusty, wrinkled lump off the ground, slapping it a few times before slinging the coat around his shoulders. It was such an offense to anything that might be considered clothing, let alone a uniform, that Ky thought he might cry.

"Please tell me you're not Sol Badguy."

Ky wasn't usually so rude, had not intended the words, but the man ignored them completely, giving him another long, slow look over.

"I'll take a box of Trefoils and two Thin Mints." Ky knew he was staring again, couldn't help it, vaguely aware he probably should have been insulted. Sol shook his head. "Nevermind."


	2. Chapter 2

Commander Undersn had taught Ky everything he knew. How to fight, how to win and – just as important - how to lead, how to use the time in between battles to gain the trust of his men. It wasn't a skill second to combat, but its necessary partner, just as vital to success and just as difficult a skill to learn as anything to do with a sword.

_"No one's going to like you, so don't bother being disappointed about it."_

He was too young, he was too inexperienced, and, according to the occasional overheard remark, much too pretty. It meant nothing, petty attempts to goad him, meaningless words from the bitter and the bored. Ky did wish, at times, that he had any sort of natural gift at gaining trust, that he could be anything but stiff and formal by nature. He lacked the ease that some men had of forming allegiances, and friendships, but he had never had the time to try and learn how, to even see if he could learn. Ky needed to win battles more than he needed to be popular, and Kliff had assured him that one would follow the other. He would just have to be patient until then.

_"You're going to have to carry. Always. The burden will be on you to be the better man."_

Politeness, then, was his ally. Humility and restraint and all good, godly virtues. Lead by example, always act to the highest standard and eventually he would be understood, and trusted. And it had happened. Usually two months before he was transferred to an entirely new group of sullen, wary people who wanted nothing to do with him.

_"Only God may be perfect, boy – but I need you to be damn close."_

Kliff Undersn didn't train soldiers, because that wasn't going to be anywhere near enough to do what had to be done.

"Check out the new girl," someone muttered as they walked down the row of tents, the voice just audible above the other, subtler murmurings. As if Ky hadn't heard it before. Many times. These men had very little reason to like him, from what he could tell they'd been laboring under the command of a few spectacular idiots, and the knowledge that all their sacrifice had gained was the chance to do it against an even larger opposing force.

"Dead man walking."

His head snapped up at that, though there was no telling where that remark had come from, an entire camp full of people watching him without actually looking.

No point in making a scene, any protest would just prove him to be the pampered fool they thought he was. He'd been through all this before, and again, and if he couldn't afford the time, if he needed to get to the end of this, needed them to work for him and with him – patience, Kiske. Patience, it was more valuable than gold.

Sol hadn't turned around once, escorting them to what Ky could only assume was the commander's tent, though it was clear the moment they stepped inside, that this wasn't where any of the important decisions were being made, the small space all but stripped to the tent pegs. Ky had the sinking decision they'd left the real commander's tent behind, though with the record of the chain of command here, he couldn't really blame them. Sol Badguy was both very large and not dead yet, which spoke of at least some kind of skill, a rough ability. Ky wouldn't trust an order from him, but he might stand behind him during a battle, just for the improved cover.

"So, uh, yeah. This is it. Uh, record… book." Sol nudged it with a hand, like it was something small and dead. "There's some blanks, when the CO was kind of… you know, in squishy chunks."

Ky flipped the book around, skimming through the entries. 'Some blanks' was the apex of understatement, more than half the pages empty, others missing, some filled with what looked like doodles, and a page of unintelligible scrawls that Sol reached over and ripped out without comment, tucking into his pocket.

"As the officer of rank, I'd expect you to be able to take up any duties in the absence of your superiors." Ky wasn't going to spark. He wasn't. And if he did, it was only because the air was so dry.

Sol snorted. "That last one was barely superior to the thing that had its way with his intestines. And I don't do paperwork. I kill Gears. Ain't got time to do more."

"Funny, I seem to manage both just fine." He felt more than heard Quinn take a step back, but his attention was captured by Badguy, looking at him with an entirely disrespectful smirk that seemed to carry a message with it, as if Ky should understand and it was only more amusing that he didn't.

"Kiske, right? You want to spell that for me? I want to make sure I get it right on the baggie we send you back in."

Ky spluttered. Heard himself splutter, fully aware that the man was goading him and not really doing half as clever a job as the ten who had come before him, and yet the last ten hadn't left him with his hand inching for the hilt of his sword. And damned if Badguy didn't know it, and damned if that didn't make it that much more impossible to calm down.

"I doubt you've ever had anyone teach you the need for respect."

Finally, something other than amused boredom in the idiot's eyes, although the gleam there was not exactly what Ky's icy tone usually invoked.

"Settle down, kid. In two weeks, I'll just be disrespecting the next one." Sol leaned back a little, considering his words carefully. "Of course, I doubt he'll have an ass like yours."

* * *

It was always fairly easy to find Sol Badguy, Kliff mused, making his way through the camp. Just follow the loudest noise, and the odds were that he would be on the other end. This time, that noise was coming from the soldiers gathered in a loose circle near the center of camp, cheering and shouting while Sol and his protege took turns attempting to drown each other in a half-inch worth of mud.

It took the assembled masses a few moments to notice him, and Kliff waited as they all fell silent around him. Ky's sword was sticking out of the ground a dozen feet away. It didn't look like Sol was bleeding, though with all the mud it was difficult to tell. The only sound left was Ky shouting vulgarities in French, or at least the pieces he could get out with Sol sitting on his back, planting his face in the mud. It wasn't a great conductor, though Kliff could see the occasional spark. Sol didn't seem impressed, and looked up, shifting his weight to slam Ky back to the ground.

"I told you to send us _actual soldiers_ this time. What am I supposed to do with this?"

Kliff sighed, shaking his head, matching Sol's grin.

"I'm just going to break it. You want me to send you the parts back?"

A few moments' inattention was all it took, Ky taking the chance at breathing room to load up a charge, the sudden snap of electricity powerful enough to throw Sol into the crowd of scattering soldiers. Ky rose to his feet, wiping off - and spitting out - the worst of the mud as he stalked over to retrieve his sword. Kliff tried to get rid of the smile as the boy turned, standing at perfect attention, his serious gaze slightly impaired by the fact that one of his eyes was nearly stuck shut with mud, a twig sticking out of his hair, his uniform unlikely to ever see a shade better than 'slightly less brown' again.

"Is everything all right here, soldier?"

"Yes, sir." Ky said calmly, the mud hiding most of his flushed skin. Anger, not embarrassment. So calm and collected most of the time, it was difficult for Kliff to convince many that Ky even had a temper. "Sol Badguy was just showing me around camp, sir."

A loud snort from behind him, and a few quieter, sudden snickers, quickly quelled. Kliff nodded.

"Excellent. I'm sure you two will be fast allies."

Ky muttered something under his breath that Kliff didn't even try to translate.


	3. Chapter 3

The nice thing about being supreme high commander blah blah whatever and living legend yadda yadda was that, in cases like this, Kliff didn't have to do much besides find a place to sit and look grimly dignified if anyone walked by. Officially, he was here to oversee the change of command. Unofficially, and more importantly, he was here to provide all the necessary justification for Ky to take over command of the most important unit that would lead the way for most of the army in the next stage of combat. His presence was enough, the combination of hero worship and his long record of victories enough to give anyone he spoke for a fair chance, and Ky only required one. A good time to come, a quiet moment in the midst of the ever-present brutality, enough time to make his presence and his support known, and then leave the boy to do what he did best.

In the meantime, he could sit in the sun and enjoy some of the tea Ky had brought along, top-grade, in a cup of sliver-thin china, one of those minor miracles that always surrounded the boy, even in the middle of a war he could find a way to carry the fragile, and the beautiful. And half those who saw it would think Ky was a fool for even making the attempt - the cup really was the perfect symbol for him.

No repeat of the sight that had greeted him on his entry to camp, though Kliff kept an ear open. Lightning magic wasn't exactly subtle, and Sol Badguy had no reason to keep his opinions to himself, or quiet. He amused himself for a bit, wondering which of them would find him first, when Ky appeared at the end of a row of tents, three logbooks already in his hands, certain to join a stack that would be waist-high by the end of the week.

"I see you've already found the work, then." Kliff said, passed the one cup over. Ky took it with a grace and delicacy that amused the older man. No doubt they'd been watching him here already, wondering who the hell he thought he was, and what Kliff thought he was doing.

"The records are an absolute disaster." Ky took a short sip, passing the cup back, handle out. "I think one in five of the last set actually bothered trying to do anything of substance."

"The situation?"

"Overall?" Ky frowned slightly. "It isn't bad, not as bad as it could be. A lot of men working on their own schedules, in their own time, but given the conditions I can see the need for such adaptation. It would be counterproductive, to force them back to an unnatural routine simply for protocol's sake, especially considering the time frame." He sighed. "They know she's coming. They all know we're throwing them out there to die, to buy time for the rest of the forces to reconvene."

"Quite a few Latin phrases, appropriate for the situation." Kliff said with a slight smile. "I doubt they're interested in hearing any."

Ky didn't answer, and Kliff could tell by the way his jaw worked he was thinking about something he thought Kliff would take the wrong way, considering the options. Always looking for the perfect path.

"Out with it, boy. I'm too old for waiting."

A slight quirk of the lips - Ky didn't believe he was mortal any more than anyone else in the Order did, no matter how much Kliff complained of aching joints or the benefits of retirement.

"Sol Badguy. How well do you trust him?"

He'd been waiting for this, Ky could only keep that question at a polite distance for so long. "As much as I trust you, boy."

"You should reconsider."

He laughed, sharp and surprised, one of the only people who knew what Ky's sense of humor sounded like, or got to see him unguarded, even for a moment, looking at him with those wide, questioning blue eyes that always made Kliff feel guilty, made him feel like every wise word was a lie and every confident moment was play acting.

"He acts on his own orders, by what he thinks is right, but he'll never leave you to hang, if that's what you're wondering about. Not one to take orders, unfortunately. Just work around him, as if he's not even there - he'll go where he's most needed."

Ky nodded, glancing away. "He's strong."

The closest there would _ever_ be to a mention of having his head in that mud puddle, and even that was more than his proud student wanted to admit.

"He's a damned tank." Amazing they still used the word, when they had long since abandoned the machines.

"It's difficult to believe you know someone like that. How did you meet?"

"Sol Badguy saved me from a Gear, a long time ago. The last time we ran into each other, I told him his strength might be of some use to our cause. For whatever reason, he agreed."

Ky made a slight sound, and it was clear he was still curious, but too respectful to grill him for further answers, always willing to accept whatever Kliff wished to give him for an explanation. The boy didn't trust easily - Kliff had taught him that, to question, to never accept as the truth anything he hadn't thought over, and judged himself.

"You think I've made a mistake? He's not an idiot, if that's what you're concerned with. Not a fool or a social climber." No motives that Kliff thought he would have any hope of ever understanding, even if his most accurate guesses were anywhere near the truth.

"I would never doubt your judgment, sir."

Kliff grimaced, though it never showed on his face, just clenched at him. What a terrible thing, to be so respected. Hardly the first time, though, dropping the boy off at the edge of hell, surrounded by unfriendly faces and facing impossible odds. His little miracle worker.

"Well, you know, boy, you can be High Commander too, someday. It's easy."

Ky's eyes glittered slightly, amused. "Just be perfect all the time, and there won't be any problems. No wonder you're a living legend, sir."

"God, they actually say that, don't they."

As if he was anything but one man, lucky enough not to get killed. Somehow, he'd made it through the day with more alive than dead, day-after-day, and that was enough to be considered a victory. Fortunate, for certain definitions of the term. He had no right to put this on Ky's shoulders - of all the people in the world who deserved more, deserved better. But he had no choice. Knowing that Ky knew this, had absolved him of any guilt before his first day on the field - it didn't help at all.

"Sir?"

Kliff blinked, jolted out of his reverie by the soft question. "Ah hell, just going senile boy, don't mind me." Ky snorted, drinking the last of the tea. Kliff waved away the offer for another cup, and even as Ky leaned back to stretch he was being called, needed for something important. Ky stood up, shot him a wry look over his shoulder, and something in Kliff's heart twinged and maybe broke, though he'd thought he'd run out of anything to break so long ago.

Just an old man, going senile, and another pair of young hands to take up his sword, and maybe - maybe - this time he wouldn't have to take it back.

* * *

"If I'd known then how much trouble you'd be, I'd have let it eat you."

The old man cracked a smile, not that Sol saw anything so old about Kliff, even now. Only a stupid kid, headstrong and brave, and this was why Sol knew nothing about anything, to think that the little brat he'd fished out of the mouth of a Gear would somehow stay alive long enough to lead the whole mess.

"I was wondering when you'd stop by." Kliff said, mild and Obi-Wan-Kenobi in the way Sol realized some people got to be, when most everyone they'd ever known were underground. He was - for innumerable reasons - probably exempt from that particular brand of peace.

"You make me depressed, old man." He had a fifth of whiskey with him, an unexpected present for not letting a Gear gnaw on half a platoon's head during the last skirmish, and Kliff made a pleased sound as he passed it over. Sol snorted.

"With all those medals they give you, you ought to have dancing girls pouring you shots. Two of a damn kind, you and your kids."

It was three days so far, and already the little Kiske ponce had proved himself the opposite of his predecessors. He kept a small tent, no frills or special requests. He was up and moving early, sharp well before the sun was out. He took his meals in the common mess, just like everyone else, and so far didn't seem to be doing it to get anyone else in trouble. Kliff kept his distance, mostly on the other side of camp, to let the boy sink or swim under his own power. It was all going to come down to the first battle, of course. Sol knew what Kliff was capable of, the sort of soldiers he created, but even then, he'd never seen anything like the stick-thin, pious French dandelion who was supposed to be a Gear killer.

"So, how screwed are we?" Sol finally asked, after the bottle was passed back and forth a few more times. Kliff was one of the rare few he'd met yet that didn't think 'big' and 'not giving a shit' equaled stupid. Like Sol didn't understand the words with more than two syllables, or the ways people maneuvered to try and cover their asses, when it was time to ante up. He'd seen buck-passing by the pros - these people had no idea, the framework didn't even exist any more to make the kinds of mistakes he remembered.

"Conditions aren't set to improve, not that they ever have - and there have been… suggestions, from some, that this situation may be better endured, rather than conquered."

"Fuck me!" Sol barked out half a laugh, rather in awe of such impressive, short-sighted stupidity. Every time he thought he'd set his expectations low enough, it was just time to reach for a shovel. "You're not serious."

Kliff shrugged slightly, staring out into the rows of tents, the sounds of soldiers at work filling the air. "Enough of the core cities are insulated - the people there, making decisions, they may not even know what a Gear attack looks like. If their armies disband and pull out of their alliances, they may very well lose less of their soliders in the short-term. A well-armed city may very well be able to fend off the Gears, protect some small territory of their own."

"Let Justice just take her time then, and pick them off one by one when she gets bored. Dumb bastards."

"If she even has to bother." Kliff had a glove in his hand, old and wrinkled and worn, folding it absently, rubbing his thumb against the leather. "Birth rates, medicine, food - even with magical resources, we're not really holding our ground here. All she would have to do is wait for one bad crop, or a plague - we are being forced to the edge. We have been, for decades. If we don't come together now, if we don't have a strong, united force-"

"… and so that's what the boy is for." Already, a few stories have followed the kid. People who've served with him, who've seen him fight, and though the majority of the force remains unconvinced, Sol was surprised by the look in their eyes when they talked. The hesitant amazement, some small suggestion of… hope. Which meant the kid was more than just some kid, more than even some battlefield genius, and Sol had the slightly unnerving feeling he knows why the boy is exactly _here_ now, with him, and shakes his head.

"I told you, I'm just going to break it, and then you'll have to send me a new one."

"He's the last."

Sol blinked. "You're not that old."

Kliff chuckled, and Sol looked at him, really looked - and he _was_ old, wasn't he? With heavy lines on his face that hadn't been there before, and his eyes dark, and distant -

"It's kind of you to say so. No, this one - I don't think I've got it in me, Sol, for another go."

Sol had buried two of Kliff's kids himself, over the years. One of them only figuratively, the girl had sacrificed herself for the rest of them, an artillery shed and a magical grenade and Sol would have done it, but by the time he'd known the fireball was already rising in the sky, nothing left of her at all. The second had died in his arms, gasping for breath with most of his torso ripped open, no magic spell strong enough to stop him from bleeding away. He'd died angry. Not confused, not scared, just staring at Sol with fury and determination and anger that he couldn't get up, couldn't keep fighting - because these were the kinds of soldiers that Kliff found, and made, and when this Kiske died, there was no question he'd die angry too.

"And you? You look well, Sol."

He was the only person who asked, who ever asked.

"Same as ever."

Kliff laughed. Never asked him, how it was that the Sol he'd known as a boy and the Sol sitting next to him were exactly the same age. Never questioned or pushed - Kliff had lived his entire life within the war, knowing only this wreck of a world. The odds were, he would die within the war, never knowing peace - and Sol would bury the first friend he'd come to outlive, the first lifetime in what might be - hundreds? Thousands? It was a strange, disconcerting thought, and he didn't let himself hold onto it for long.

"You remember the story of Abraham, Sol?"

"Didn't take you for a bible thumper, Undersn." Sol closed his eyes for a moment, and exhaled. This, this was what it was all about. The lines on Kliff's face. The grim, tired expression. "I heard he was on the field. You fought him?"

"No. No. I barely… I saw him. Just for a moment." Kliff's voice was low enough, Sol was glad for his enhanced hearing. "I saw him."

Sol had met Testament once, back before he was Testament. Even then, the man hadn't had much use for him, certainly hadn't liked him, and Sol had thought he was King of the Stuck-Up Assclowns and maybe, maybe had said so to his face. It hadn't been a surprise, to hear that he'd died - painful, yes, that he was like a son to Kliff and everyone had known it, but this was a war and everyone died, and even the Commander's most beloved was buried in a mass grave, lost and unsung.

And then he'd come back, and that was a surprise, and it was terrible. Sol doubted Kliff had looked like this before that moment, or had even considered his age.

"It wasn't random. It wasn't random and… it wasn't her."

Justice had never shown any interest in manipulating humans, no reason to bother with deceit or subtlety when simple destruction worked just as well. Sol wasn't exactly sure how to connect the dots, between the two of them - wasn't sure if he was more pissed off at her for having a new toy or amused at the thought of who she'd taken it away from, how pissed off they must have been.

"It wasn't an accident, was it." Not a question. "He was… he was executed to get at me. Hurt me by hurting him."

Kliff's expression was a frozen mask, his voice low and steady, so much pain there it raised the hairs on the back of Sol's neck. He knew he was the first and only person to hear it, would be the only person Kliff would ever ask. Nothing Sol could say would make things any easier, not and still be true.

"I think so."

Kliff's voice slipped even further down, mixing in with the sound of the camp. "Was he alive, could he have been alive, when they…"

"I don't know." At least one, that Sol didn't have to feel bad answering. "I don't know what they think they're doing. Maybe trying for another Command Gear. Maybe trying to kill Justice, maybe trying to bring her in alive. Who the hell knows."

"Do you think he-"

He didn't finish the question, so Sol didn't have to try and think of a response. He was glad he only talked to Kliff. One more person would be too much, for this kind of shit.

"Sometimes, when I look at Ky, now-" Kliff's voice cracked slightly. The glove was a crumpled wad, crushed in his hands as he kept staring out at nothing. "He'll get the same look. When he's thinking, when he's determined, and I just, for a moment…" He shut his eyes. "I want God to stop asking me if I have any more sons."

No more talking. Nothing to say. The both of them watch quietly as Ky Kiske makes his way across camp, bright blond hair and about a half-a-foot shorter than most of the rest of them, and he's faster too. Never looks up, flipping through a sheaf of papers that seem to flock to him, Sol didn't even _remember _that much paperwork to ignore.

"Promise me… I need you to burn the body. If… When… Please, if you can."

He didn't sound like the commander of anything, just lost, and desperate. Sol breathed in, and out, badly in need of a cigarette.

"You're a real son of a bitch, you know that?"

Kliff laughed, and handed him the flask back.


End file.
